Ecstasy

Yasmin: Tears streamed down my face as I staggered up the stairs. My finger gripped my tummy and low groans rumbled in my throat. It was over. It was finally over. Twenty-one days of no food and water was finally over and I felt like I walked on the thin line between life and death. Dad said that fasting made you stronger, drew you closer to the Lord but I felt weaker than water and close to the Lord… Yes, I was. On the verge of death, close to meeting Him. It would have been bearable if I didn't get my period yesterday. Bleeding and hungry, my womb and stomach were out to get me. There was never a combination so terrible. My fingers ran on the cold stone walls of the convent as I willed myself to the dining room. Every stone step moved under my feet, each breath was a task. Arghhh… the pain was getting worse. My insides were pulling themselves apart. Lord, why?! I stopped; my legs shook under me. I took a deep breath and that's when I smelled it. Cinnamon rolls! And was that… m

Yasmin: This was it: 4th Grace Avenue. My heart skipped a beat and I nearly fell backwards trying to take in the tall and grand building. I did the sign of the cross on my chest and kissed my rosary. The priest had always warned us about the rich as well as places like this: havens for sin and evil, people tied to their wealth and their money, futile, buys them a spot in hell. The security guard let me in and led me to the front door. I gulped and looked at him. “What?” he snapped and I showed him my bandaged hands. His stiff face reddened slightly and his fist knocked heavily on the thick door that it made me jump. As soon as the door clicked from the inside, the security guard hurried to his post and left me alone. The door opened and an elderly maid stood at the post. Her smile was kind yet full of pain. “Good morning, I am Sister Yasmin. I came to see Mrs. West.” She nodded wordlessly and ushered me in. The home was beautifully furnished: chandeliers hung from the ceilings li

Yasmin: My sunken eyes stared back at me as I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Sunday morning and the challenge it came with came faster than I wanted it to. The plastic bags and elastic bands lay on the table, staring at me, waiting for me to do the needful. A sigh escaped my lips and my sunken green eyes stared back at me from the mirror, tired but encouraging me to do the necessary. Slowly I unwrapped the bandages on my hands, wincing and whimpering as the soft material bruised and stung my tender, peeling skin. My hands didn’t even look like mine anymore: pink patches of tender exposed skin and blisters covered my hands. I tested my fingers and instantly regretted it, as a blister popped open and began to ooze and bleed anew and all I could do was stand there and watch my crimson blood drip into the sink. Quickly, I wrapped it back up, powering through the pain and wrapping it all again in the plastic bags and bands so that I could shower. Just as I was about to take